My friend and I signed up for a Flying Trapeze class. It felt daring and adventurous, and I imagined the thrill of flying through the air—with the greatest of ease, of course. I pictured lithe circus performers, their long graceful bodies making perfect arcs above the awestruck crowd, and I thought, “I want to do that.”

My reality was a tad different than my fantasy. I wasn’t prepared for how high the trapeze platform looks when you’re standing on the ground looking up at it, but I felt sure we’d be doing lots of on-the-ground practice before climbing the ladder and leaping into nothing.

Not so.

A brief explanation of procedure and I was off up the ladder. I climbed with confidence, not looking down, and hauled myself onto the platform.

From my vantage point I could see the whole of the Santa Monica pier, the rollercoaster rumbling by behind me, and the mountains in the distance. If I’d had the nerve to look down, I would have seen the tiny dots that were my friends looking up at me.

This is how trapeze works: You stand on the edge of an already narrow platform while the assistant pulls the bar to you. I had a safety harness around my waist, with a rope threaded through a pulley system, and the other end controlled by a spotter on the ground. Below is a net. Or rather, a long way below is a net.

Once I had the bar in both hands, the assistant held onto the back of my belt and instructed me to lean out and push my hips forward. The physical act of standing on a platform and leaning out over my center of gravity, looking down at a distant net and the ground below, goes against everything instinctual about self-preservation.

“I got you” said the assistant, and I had to trust that she did.

I leaned out and she leaned back and and we held our gravity-defying position until it was time for her to let go and for me to jump.

And jump I did.

The physics of trapeze is such that you are holding up your entire body weight for only a fraction of the swing, and at certain points you are almost weightless. The sensation was everything I’d imagined it would be.

But at some point you have to let you. Against all instinct of personal survival, you must drop backwards into a net and trust, yet again, that the spotter will help control your fall.

And then, when your blood stream is so pumped with adrenalin that your legs and arms shake, you have to execute a dignified somersault out of the net and back onto terra firma.

I succeeded (although not on the “dignity” count.)

On the next attempt, I did a knee swing, hanging upside down from my knees, and then moved on to a catch-and-release, the move you’ve no doubt seen, where the flyer swings, leaves her own trapeze and is caught mid-air by a chap hanging upside down from his trapeze. The move takes perfect timing and absolute trust.

I failed on all counts and I have the video to prove it.

By the end of the two-hour class I was completely exhausted, having run on adrenalin the whole time. My body was tired from the physical moves and battered from dropping over and over into the net. But my pride was surprisingly intact.

I didn’t make the catch and release, but I climbed, and I trusted, and ultimately, I jumped. And for that, I am quite proud of myself.

You can see my catch-and release attempt here. I thought it looked quite impressive, right up until the part where I missed!

This morning I sat down to rewrite the opening of my novel, The Smallest Thing, for what feels like the 4,000th time. I’ve been submitting the manuscript to agents and getting some really encouraging feedback. They love the premise, love the writing, but…something’s missing and that something is leading to “no”.

I’m, surprisingly, not too upset about this, because the same feeling has been niggling at me for some time, but I wasn’t sure exactly what it was or how to fix it. After digging into the character work for my current work-in-progress, it became apparent to me where The Smallest Thing was falling short. And this week, after an amazing five-minute chat with a trusted mentor, I finally saw clearly what I need to do.

I’m both excited and relieved that the light bulb finally came on, but now I’m facing the very daunting task of scrapping almost 40 beloved pages and starting again. Not to mention that changing the opening will undoubtedly set off a chain reaction of fixes that will weave through the entire book. I definitely have my work cut out.

I’ve heard some authors say that they write three drafts of a book—one first draft, one major rewrite, one polish, and it’s done. I am not one of those writers. I twiddle and tweak and chop entire chapters and characters, only to put them back in as the story deepens. And openings are my personal Achilles heel. If I looked back through my files, I’ll bet I have at least ten completely different openings that I’ve written along the way.

But, what’s interesting to me about my tendency to completely rewrite is that is makes the actual writing more approachable. I know that the words I put down are not set in stone, they are not (quite literally) the final word, and that knowledge that I can always rewrite gives me the freedom to take chances. And that, I believe, increases my odds of eventually finding the perfect beginning.

I was very honored to be invited onto a live Q&A with book coach, Jennie Nash, this morning and to share my experiences on the self-publishing path. As always, it was a lively conversation. Here is the replay.

We covered a lot of ground, so if you were on the webinar and didn’t get your burning questions answered, please post them in the comments or drop me a line and I’ll do my best to answer them.

Michelangelo is quoted as saying that a work of art is never finished, merely abandoned.

But there are degrees of doneness and the trick is to know when to let go and when to go back and make improvements. And yet, at some point you have to call a project “done.”

Last year I completed my novel, The Smallest Thing. It went through many drafts of full and partial rewrites, including a couple with a story development editor, two rounds of Beta readers, and the sharp and unforgiving eye of a line editor. I was very proud to be able to send the book out into the world.

And yet, already I feel as if I’ve outgrown that project. I’m constantly working on my craft—through seminars, books, and workshops, as well as hours logged “practicing” putting words on a page—and I know I’m a more mature writer now than I was a year ago. It’s so tempting to go back into the book and make improvements.

Writers are our own worst critics and I know I am capable of tinkering with that book for the rest of my life. I know because I’m still tinkering with the first novel I ever wrote, still knowing it can be the book I first envisioned. But this time I’m resisting.

My book is out looking for an agent and I’ll know soon enough what work still needs to be done, because there will always be work that needs to be done. I think the answer to knowing when a book is truly done is this: When you sign off on the final print proof and relinquish your right to keep tinkering with it.

So for now, I’m moving forward with my next project and, for the time being, I’m calling The Smallest Thing finished.